


Who Did You Wed?

by Unforth



Category: Supernatural
Genre: A Hint of Benny/Dean/Castiel if you Squint, Accidental Marriage, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drinking, Fluff and Crack, Humor, Las Vegas, M/M, Memory Loss, Reality TV, Second-Hand Embarrassment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:33:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22912534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unforth/pseuds/Unforth
Summary: “Five people who vacationed in Las Vegas at the same time - four drunken hours coincidentally shared in the same bar - and one surprise, forgotten wedding! Oops! Who is our lucky couple this week? Find out on the latest episode of‘Who Did You Wed?’”
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 51
Kudos: 225





	Who Did You Wed?

**Author's Note:**

> My wife had a dream where she knew she was married but couldn't remember who she was married to, and somehow that prompted this idea for a ridiculous reality TV show...and then somehow it ended up like 7k words long.
> 
> I have no idea.
> 
> But I'm not sorry.

“Five people who vacationed in Las Vegas at the same time - four drunken hours coincidentally shared in the same bar - and one surprise, forgotten wedding! Oops! Who is our lucky couple this week? Find out on the latest episode of ‘ _ Who Did You Wed? _ ’”

The spot light flashed on, encircling Dean where he perched on a stool on the simple stage and dazzling his eyes. He managed a sheepish grin and a small wave at the camera.

“First, our main contestant, Dean Winchester!” The show’s host, Dick Roman, was a smarmy douche bag behind the scenes, incessantly making jokes at Dean’s expense, and on the screen...actually, he was a smarmy douche bag when the cameras were on, too. “Our lucky no-longer-a-bachelor! Tell us a little about yourself, Mr. Winchester!”

“Well, I’m an Aquarius,” Dean tried to turn on the charm, but he suspected he mostly sounded tired. The line fell flat, the audience silent, Roman stared at him, and he sighed. “Hey, yo, I’m Dean. My brother is in college at Stanford, and I’m a mechanic in Lawrence, Kansas, so we decided to meet each other halfway and have some fun in Vegas.” The days since Dean had woken up alone in a bed, with a ring around his finger and a marriage certificate on his night stand, had been fucking  _ bizarre _ . “And he was definitely at the bar that night.” The name on the sheet was Castiel Novak, but either it was a fake name, or the dude (or lady? But Dean thought dude…) was allergic to the internet. “And  _ damn  _ am I hoping none of the folks you’ve brought in for this dog-and-pony show are him cause that would just be  _ seriously  _ awkward.” No Facebook, no LinkedIn, no Twitter, not even a fricken MySpace or some shit. “Or at least I think he was at the bar?” So Dean was apparently hitched, to a total stranger, and he didn’t even know what he, or possibly she, looked like. “My memory of that night is...not so much.”

“...which is the whole point!” laughed Dick Roman. “We found Dean here trying to get a divorce using a marriage certificate he found in his hotel room. He knows the name on that certificate, and absolutely nothing else about who he married - not even their gender! You ready to meet your potential spouses?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” sighed Dean. Roman shot him a glare. Dean was supposed to pretend to enthusiasm, was supposed to play along.  _ Who Did You Wed?  _ was the strangest combination of schadenfreude and  _ awww  _ moments, and Dean was man enough to admit he’d watched it a handful of times, but that he was  _ on it _ was...something. God, Sam was  _ never  _ going to let him live this down, and neither would the guys at the shop.

With a grandiose gesture, Roman triggered the lights to go up on the rest of the stage. To Dean’s left, four people - two men and two women, no hints there - sat on stools. Dean vaguely remembered all of them - he’d definitely bought a drink for the tall, dark haired beauty of a woman who balanced easily on her stool, one leg crossed over the other. Maybe her name was Castiel? And he’d danced with the smiling bear, and would have been more than happy to do more than dance. He didn’t look like a ‘Castiel,’ though. What the fuck kind of name even was that? 

“Potential Spouse 1, tell us about yourself!”

A woman was atop the nearest stool, long hair bouncing about her shoulders in gorgeous ringlets, looking nonplussed by the entire proceeding. “Hi, my name is...a secret...and there’s no way I’d marry a dumbass like that,” she waved vaguely in Dean’s direction. “Seriously, who gets married and doesn’t  _ remember  _ it? I don’t even know what I’m doing here.”

“But Spouse 1...you don’t remember that night either!” Roman teased, and she scowled, folded her hands in her lap, and shifted uncomfortably on the stool.

She was pretty - thin, well dressed, and he suspected her brown eyes would get a beautiful gleam when she smiled. He’d have at least attempted to hit that, if he saw her at a bar.

“I mean...I guess I  _ might  _ have married him…” she muttered. “Could you blame me? He’s  _ hot _ .”

The studio audience laughed.

If Dean’s memory was right...which was  _ highly  _ dubious...he  _ had  _ tried to hit that, and she’d turned him down flat.

“Potential Spouse 2, you’re up!”

This was the bear; sitting, he looked a little chubby, but Dean recalled enough about their dance to know there was nothing plush about that bulk. The man, had a neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper goatee, a million dollar smile, and dazzling blue eye. He offered Dean a wink and a grin.

_ At least, I hope it’s a million dollar smile...I hope  _ one  _ of them is  _ the  _ million dollar smile… _

‘Cause that was what was at stake here, and the only reason Dean had agreed to this instead of telling the show producers to fuck off when they approached him while he was attempting to get an annulment. Which apparently he couldn’t do, without his spouse present. If Dean could only figure out which of these four morons had been dumb enough to marry him, they’d walk away with a cool mil to start their new life together.

A cut-rate divorce lawyer cost $500 dollars.

That left $999,500 for him and his ex to share, pre-taxes.

Even post taxes, what was left should cover Sam’s education, with a few bucks left to spare. Maybe Dean would get a steak dinner.

Not a bad haul for a few weeks of being the laughingstock of the country.

“Hi there, chere,” said the bear. “I’m from New Orleans.” His voice was smooth honey with a lilting southern accent, and a shiver went down Dean’s spine. “I make the best beignets in the country, or at least that’s what the Food and Wine review said.” He’d asked the bear to return to Dean’s hotel room for some fun, that Dean was sure of. “And I may not remember much but I’m  _ sure  _ you and I had some nice times.” Damn if he couldn’t remember if the bear had  _ accepted _ , though.

“Oh, I know it.” It was only a partial lie. What Dean  _ did  _ remember had been excellent. He kinda hoped the bear was his Castiel.

Though, knowing his luck, it was scowling curly-headed Spouse 1. Who was glaring at him. Trust Dean to marry a shrew. Damn it all.

“Whoa, just watch those sparks fly!” chuckled Roman. “Don’t let the fire blaze too high yet, boys, we’ve still got two more spouses to meet! Potential Spouse 3, on to you!”

“Hello, Dean.” Spouse 3 was the least striking; his dark hair was styled neatly, his trench coat fit poorly - and the hell kinda weirdo would wear a trench coat, indoors, to a reality TV show? - and his gaze was fixed on the floor a few feet in front of his stool. “I’m an accountant. I’ve never done anything like this. I have no idea what I was thinking, going to that bar, having a few drinks...maybe a few drinks too many, and agreeing to come on the show...my brother will never let me forget this.”

Dean laughed. “Well, ain’t that ten kinds of a mood.”

Three’s gaze flicked up and Dean got a flash of a glimpse of stunning blue eyes, plus pink lips, and an alluring five o’clock shadow. “I have no idea what that  _ means _ ,” said blue eyes, frustrated.

“It means your brother and my brother are probably sitting together in the audience, next to each other, laughing their asses off…” Dean clarified.

“What do you think, audience? Is that what’s happened?” There was a mischievous glint on Roman’s eye and Dean’s stomach sank. Sure enough, a spotlight swang toward the live studio audience and picked out Sammy, grinning and shaking his head; a man was collapsed against his side, tears streaming down his face, paroxysms of amusement so powerful that he looked like he couldn’t breathe.

“Oh God, Gabriel,” groaned blue eyes, smacking his face into his hands.

_...Gabriel...that rings a bell... _

“Now, now, no names!” Roman chided, his tone light but his eyes narrowed with the slightest hint of murder. “That’s the one thing I must insist on - anonymity until the big reveal!”

A distorted image swam up in Dean’s memory, of Dean standing at the bar offering blue eyes a drink, of the laughing brother stumbling over and shoving them against each other so hard their beers sloshed over and their lips met, of a gruff, sinful voice saying, “really, Gabriel?” and the laughing man shouting, “ _ just kiss already _ ” over and over and over.

After that brief glimpse of blue eye’s handsome face, Dean massively regretted that he had no idea if they’d actually kissed.

“Sorry, Dick,” everyone said simultaneously.

_ God, really? All of us? At once? Even Sammy? This reality TV shit is like some weird infection. Who needs coronavirus when we have a laugh track and an ‘applause’ sign? _

“Apology accepted,” Roman grumped, channeling  _ annoyed father scolding the kids over playing with their food _ . “Don’t let it happen again. Now, Potential Spouse 4, what do you have to say for yourself?”

“Howdy, Dean.” This was the dark haired woman; as she spoke, she stretched, arms over her head, highlighting the perfect curve of her belly and breasts. “I actually live in Vegas, and I’m a yoga instructor, though I do some other jobs on the side.” Wiggling her hips suggestively, she stretched out her bent leg at a truly impressive angle, every perfect muscle highlighted by the skin-tight leggings she wore. She flashed a saucy wink at Dean, at her fellow contestants, at the audience, and was rewarded by an appreciative  _ oooo  _ from the assembly.

“Other jobs?” muttered blue eyes to the bear. “What does that mean?”

“It means she’s a stripper,” the bear supplied with a chuckle, and the audience whooped their approval as blue eyes turned back to the stripper, his mouth in a perfect  _ ohhh  _ of understanding. 

Dick Roman smiled indulgently at the raucous response, and only when it died down did he continue. “Alright, alright, let’s keep this rated G!” he said, earning another titter. “So, for our first time viewers...and our contestants with memory problems…” Another laugh. God, that was getting annoying. “...here are the rules. Our contestant, Dean, can ask a total of 10 questions of our contestants. For each question, they can each choose to answer...or not.” He shrugged, and the audience laughed again. “But we’ve only got 20 minutes for questions, so if they run out of time...they run out of questions.” Looking out into the crowd, Dean caught Sam’s eye roll. It was all he could do not to share it. “We’ve also got a few special features queued up to see if we can jog any memories. Then - the moment of truth.”  _ Oooo _ , said the crowd. “We’ll see if Dean’s figured out - or, if he’s  _ very  _ lucky, remembered - who he married. And if he’s right? He and his husband or wife get one million dollars to embark on their new life together! And if he’s wrong...the divorce is on us!” Roman laughed, and the audience laughed, and Dean begrudgingly smiled, and the bear and the stripper laughed, and curly hair rolled her eyes, and blue eyes just looked confused. “Dean, are you ready with your first question?”

“I am,” he said. He’d had four days to think of his questions, and write them out, and get them approved by the producers, and memorize them. He’d had four. damn. days. locked in a hotel room, in total isolation, to stew about his horrible life choices and try to figure out what ten questions were good enough to get him one million dollars, knowing in the end the answers hardly mattered, because his drunk ass surely hadn’t done anything sensible like actually pick someone with whom he was compatible.

“Well, then, we’ll hear a word from our sponsors...and then, Dean, you’re on!”

The  _ on air _ sign went dark.

Everyone on stage except Roman breathed a sigh of relief. Dean massaged his forehead.

The questions were irrelevant.

The replies were irrelevant.

Heck, which of the four he thought hottest was irrelevant.

Drunk him made bad choices. He had a  _ lifetime  _ of experiences that proved that.

After this? He was never fricken drinking again.

And in the meantime, he had to kill twenty minutes in the spotlight, get whatever answers he got, put on an amusing show for the audience, and then he’d roll the dice - a one-in-four chance he’d pick the right person and win the money and finally get to move the fuck on with his life.

20 minutes.

Of utter public agony and humiliation.

In exchange for a small chance of loads of money, and a divorce.

Well, the divorce would happen regardless.

Awesome.

“And we’re back! When we left off, Dean was about to ask his four potential spouses his questions. So, Dean - let’s hear them! Ask away, but remember...the clock is ticking!” Roman gestured toward the back of the stage, where a large screen was mounted. Above the screen, a large digital clock lit up, red letters against a black background, counting down, 20:00, 19:59, 19:58, 19:57, 19:56...

Might as well get it over with.

“Boxers or briefs?” Dean asked.

“That’s  _ it _ ?” exclaimed curly hair.

“Thought I’d start ya’ll off easy,” Dean replied with a shrug.

“Well, it’s none of your fu... _ damn  _ business,” she huffed.

“I wear a thong,” the stripper offered with a wink.

“I bet you do,” chuckled the bear. “Boxers here, man. Gotta let the boys breathe.”

“You’ve got more than one?” blue eyes sounded horrified.

“G rated!” Roman interjected.

“He asked about our underwear, how is that rated G?” said curly hair.

“I wear boxer-briefs,” blue eyes offered, and he shot Dean another of those nervous glances, and Dean’s heart leapt. There was something so tantalizing in that brief glimpse, and as huggably appealing as Dean found the bear, and as down-right  _ hot  _ the stripper was, Dean found himself wishing that blue eyes would actually look at him, acknowledge him, talk to him.

He really, really hoped they’d actually kissed.

“Well, in case ya’ll were wondering, I go commando,” Dean said, finding his performance stride and smirking at the camera.

“Nobody asked,” curly hair rolled her eyes again.

“He’s lying,” Sam called from the audience.

“No comments from the peanut gallery!” Dean shouted back.

“He’s tighty whiteys all the way!”

“The jerk in the fourth row is my brother,” offered Dean to the potential spouses with an apologetic shrug. “And I guess...one of you is now stuck with him for a brother-in-law. Sorry about that. Anyway, second question...uh...ya’ll could have gone on vacation all kinds of places, so...why Vegas?”

“Spouse 2, you’re up first,” Roman said, a subtle reminder of the rules they’d been told before the show - take turns, try not to interrupt, keep answers short and sassy, keep things moving and interesting, commercial break at ten minute intervals, so many, many rules, and if they violated even one,  _ poof  _ went the cash.

“I’m not here on vacation,” said the bear. “Actually, those beignets I mentioned? I’m lookin’ at a franchise. This trip was business, not pleasure. Or at least, _ mostly  _ not pleasure.”

“Congratulations,” blue eyes said, “that’s quite an opportunity. If you need a good accountant…”

“Ya know, I do, bro - thanks!” The bear gave blue eyes an assessing, appreciative look and smiled. “We’ll trade info after the show.”

“Hey, now - no forming side relationships until we know who’s married who!” Roman and the audience wasted 17 precious seconds of Dean’s twenty minutes. “Spouse 2, you might be flirting with a married man!”

“I’m here because my brother bought the tickets. He told me we were going to the Wyoming Dinosaur Center. I didn’t realize until we crossed the Nevada border that he was a lying liar who lies.”

_ Wyoming Dinosaur Center? That sounds kick-ass... _

“ _ Wyoming _ ?” spluttered curly hair. “That’s...like...400 miles from here!” A Google map appeared on the back screen, showing the route from Nevada to a point somewhere in Wyoming and naming the distance at nearly 800 miles.

“Yes, well, following directions isn’t my strong point,” shrugged blue eyes. “What’s your excuse?”

“I came for the shows,” curly hair said with a hint of defensiveness. “Gambling, and drinking, and one night stands...ridiculous. Total waste of time, for people with more money than sense.” Her aloof glance toward Dean left subtlety high and dry. “And that’s not saying much, since our groom here looks pretty broke. But I’ve always wanted to see Penn and Teller.”

“Did you get to?” asked the stripper curiously. “I’ve heard they’re great. I’m always working when they’re on.”

“Oh, yeah, they were!” For the first time since the show had gone live, curly hair actually sounded happy about something. “Totally worth it. Even considering I got stuck staying in town an extra three days for this.”

“Well, I live here, and I love it,” the stripper supplied. “I moved here after a bad break up a few years back and, well, it’s not for nothing they call it Sin City, and it’s perfect. All those drinks and partners and dice games that prissy over there is avoiding? Send them my way. I’m down.” She winked saucily.

“What about you, Dean?” Blue eyes was the last of the four that Dean would have expected a personal question from...okay, no, curly hair was the last he’d expect a question from, but blue eyes was a close third. Smiling, Dean shrugged.

“Well, like I said - makes a good half-way point between Stanford and Lawrence…” He trailed off as the map on the back screen updated, showing the distance from Stanford to Las Vegas - about 600 miles - and the distance from Lawrence to Las Vegas - about 1400 miles. The audience laughed uproariously. “What, where the hell did you want us to meet up instead? Does  _ anything else  _ on that route from Kansas look like any fun to ya’ll?”

“I wanted to go skiing!” Sam offered.

“What, and bust up my knee again? Screw that!” Dean laughed. “C’mon, man. It’s  _ Vegas _ . Who  _ wouldn’t  _ want to come here?”

Blue eyes raised his hand.

Curly hair raised her hand.

Everyone laughed.

“Would you move to be with your new spouse?” Dean asked his third question as the laughter faded. It had originally been his eighth question, but it seemed as good a transition as any.

“Not to be with  _ you _ ,” said curly hair. 

“Now, now, it’s not your turn,” Roman said. “Spouse 3?”

“It depends,” said blue eyes. “How far would we end up from my brother?” That brought more general laughter. “I’m not kidding,” he added, flat and unaffected.

“I didn’t think you were,” the stripper said, still doubled over. “Man, with that poker face? No wonder this Gabriel guy brought you to Vegas. You could make a killing.”

“I don’t understand what murder for hire has to do with my ability to excel at a card game…”

“I…” she broke down again, overcome. “I seriously can’t tell if you’re joking or not. Oh my God, that’s priceless. Murder for hire! Make a killing! And no, to answer your question, I wouldn’t move. Las Vegas is like...my soulmate or something. I was made for this city.”

When no one came up with a clever response, the bear looked to curly hair. “What?” she asked. He gestured for her to speak. “I already answered.”

The bear shook his head. “Well, this might be the only thing we agree about then,” he said, “because chere - you’re a tall, dark drink of water, but my life is in Nawlins, and I ain’t leavin’. Would you be willing to leave Lawrence?”

“Depends on if leaving comes with a lifetime supply of free beignets,” Dean said. The bear laughed, shaking his head. 

“With the number you’d eat? I’d go out of business!”

“If I become your accountant, will  _ I  _ get free beignets?” asked blue eyes thoughtfully.

“I’ll take them out of your pay,” the bear countered.

“How much  _ does  _ a beignet cost these days?” asked Dean.

“Is that your fourth question?” Roman said with a grin.

The audience dissolved into hilarity.

The clock ticked down.

And so it went, Dean asking his inane questions, and his potential spouses bantering back and forth. Despite the awkwardness of the set up, of being forced to interact, of the audience watching like they were some damn zoo exhibit, it was surprisingly fun. Everyone fell easily into the give and take, showing their personalities to the camera. 

Curly hair was smart, and quick, and aloof, certain that she would  _ never  _ engage in the debauchery they’d all sunk to, yet just as obviously  _ there _ , her memory just as alcohol-wiped as the rest of them. When she dared suggest that she’d left the bar early, Roman smirked and called up one his side features - photographs and selfies taken that night at the bar, by the four of them, by Sam and Gabriel, by random others who geotagged their Instagram posts. Curly hair was  _ definitely  _ there, doing full duck lips in a selfie with a laughing Dean at her side. Dean had forgotten all about that. Yhe others were there too - and they’d all interacted, danced together, laughed together, drank together.

_ Damn it, past me, you got this all wrong. Why get hitched to a stranger? This coulda been the orgy of a mother-fuckin’ lifetime. _

_...coulda, woulda, shoulda… _

The bear was probably Dean’s favorite, though not in a “get hitched and spend forever together” kinda way. But he was down to earth, and funny as fuck, and utterly irreverent. Dean had met few people with whom he’d rather kick off his shoes and share a brew or six. However this worked out, Dean would definitely be finding out his name -  _ he  _ really  _ doesn’t look like a ‘Castiel Novak’ _ \- and making plans to meet up, cause hot damn, yes. And if they  _ were  _ married…

...well, that would be awkward.

Fucking hell, Dean was actually  _ married _ to one of these four people.

He was pretty sure it  _ wasn’t  _ the stripper. She was full of laughs and smiles, and she constantly hinted she was all in for the one night stand, but despite her memory failure it seemed wildly out of character that she might, on a whim, marry a stranger. Then again, her life also sounded like a string of bad decisions, so who was Dean to say? This was all the slimmest snapshot of who they really were, anyway; trying to infer based on these questions was ludicrous.

Blue eyes, now...he was something else. Despite his constant “put upon” act, he was full of sassy comebacks, and he had a raised eyebrow that was the most effective put down Dean had ever seen - though it would have been nicer if said eyebrow hadn’t been used on Dean.

That look was probably what Dean deserved for asking about the trenchcoat, though.

After days of tense, nervous anticipation, the twenty minutes passed surprisingly quickly, and a lot of the laughter was genuine, and Dean found...he kind of liked all four of them...which he supposed made sense, given how much time he’d apparently spent with them at the bar that night.

But then Roman was up, quieting their laughter with a hand repeatedly raised and lowered, saying, “bring it down, now, bring it down - I’m glad we’re having fun here - and boy-howdy, are we - but that was our timer going off, and now, Dean - you’ve got the length of our next commercial break to make up your mind!”

And the on air sign went dark again.

And the stage went dim.

And the audience talked quietly amongst themselves.

And the bear and blue eyes talked about restaurant accounting.

And Dean tried to make himself think, tried to consider what little he remembered, what memories had been jogged by the photographs, and what small kernels he’d gleaned from the 8 questions he’d actually managed to ask.

Dean had never intended to marry  _ anyone _ , but really...he could do worse than any of these four people. When she wasn’t being a raving bitch, curly hair was hilarious, her comebacks perfectly on point. Everytime Dean looked at the bear, he just wanted to  _ snuggle _ , which was not an instinct Dean had often, nor one he’d ever,  _ ever  _ admit to. Blue eyes was  _ gorgeous _ ; Dean had many reasons he wanted to remove that trenchcoat and burn it but foremost was wanting to see more of the body beneath - the shots from the bar had offered tantalizing hints, because that night blue eyes had worn well-fitted slacks, a black shirt, and a blue vest that brought out his eyes (and sworn his brother had picked that outfit for him, his own fashion sense well on display in his decision to wear the trench to the show). And the stripper, well...Dean had no intention of moving to Las Vegas to be with anyone, and she was beautiful, but seemed a little vapid...Dean had the bad feeling he’d get bored. But the sex would probably be  _ amazing _ .

_ Oh, God...whoever I married, did we have sex? I. don’t. remember. _

_ And anyway...what’s the use thinking about what aspects of them I like? This isn’t about who I  _ would  _ marry, if I had to pick one right now, it’s about who I  _ already  _ married. _

_ What a fucking mess. _

_ I just want the money. _

_ Okay, let’s get back in that moment...drunk me...totally smashed...having a blast...which of these people do I think I’d sashay up to...no, fuck that, I don’t  _ sashay _...which of these assholes do I think I approached in a totally manly, bold way, and said, “come on, babe, marry me!” _

_ Which of them would have actually said  _ yes _? _

_ Or...oh God...maybe I’ve got this ass backwards. What if  _ they  _ asked  _ me _? _

Now that the thought had struck him, Dean could see it so easily. He was lonely, and he’d had so much fun that night, and drunk him, starting to hit the maudlin stage of knowing the night wouldn’t last forever, the trip wouldn’t last forever...that in mere days, he’d be back in Lawrence, and Sam would be back in Stanford, and yeah, Dean had few friends in Lawrence but he was isolated and sad, his life mostly occupied by work...with all that baggage, if some gorgeous new acquaintance actually had the audacity to say, “let’s tie the knot,” with everything that implied…

...someone who liked Dean, who wanted him around, wanted to spend more time with him, had enjoyed the night as much as Dean had…

...God, Dean would have said yes in a heartbeat.

Heck, if it was blue eyes, Dean might have said yes  _ sober _ .

And there - right there - that was his decision. The odds that staid, snarky, basically-kidnapped-by-his-brother blue eyes might be the one to say such a thing to Dean were non-existent...really, he had trouble imagining any of the four saying such a thing, but he also couldn’t imagine any saying yes if he’d done the asking...but, obviously, one of them  _ had  _ asked, and one of them  _ had  _ said yes, and if Dean had to pick...he wanted to get to know blue eyes better. He wanted to spend more time with him. He wanted to see the muscles hiding beneath those baggy clothes. He wanted to make the man laugh, and moan, and smile, and actually  _ look  _ at him.

_ There’s no chance it’s him. _

_ He’s about 95 million miles out of my league, the damn sun to my puny little earth, but...screw it. _

_ Maybe, after I’ve lost the money, and the show has paid for our on-air annulment, and he’s done giving the bear his contact information, he’ll let me have his number. _

_ Maybe we can go to the Wyoming Dinosaur Museum together. _

_ A man can dream, right? _

“And we’re back! Our exciting finale is at hand, folks - are you ready to find out what  _ really  _ happened that night in Vegas?” Roman shook his hand like he was getting ready to cast a pair of dice down the length of a craps table.

“Yes!” the audience shouted.

“Dean, have you decided?” asked Roman. Dean nodded, his stomach twisting into a queasy knot. He opened his mouth, but Roman cut him off with a sharp gesture. “You really make a pattern of jumping the gun don’t you?” The audience laughed, and Dean tried not to scowl. “Here’s your whiteboard - write down your response.” Oh, right. This bullshit. After Dean’s answer was already official and couldn’t be changed, the potential Spouses would get one last chance to each speak, and share their own opinions, and only  _ then  _ would Dean find out how badly he’d blown this. 

Everything about this. Just. So awesome.

Why had he agreed to this shit again?

Still, with a shaking hand - certain he was signing away his once-in-a-lifetime chance at one million dollars, Dean took the white board, grabbed the marker, and wrote, “Spouse 3.” Roman stared over his shoulder and gave a thoughtful nod, said, “oh, hmm, so that’s your choice, that’s unexpected,” to tease the audience.

Dean kind of wanted to deck him.

But instead, he added an emphatic period after the number 3 for no good reason other than that he wanted to hit  _ something _ , and handed it back to Roman, who passed it to a show staff member, who spirited it away backstage.

“So, Spouse 4 - what’s your thinking?”

The stripper did another of those criminally hot stretches and then looked down the line of other spouses to offer Dean a sad smile. “Dean, you seem like a really,  _ really  _ cool guy. Like, if I was gonna pick someone - though honestly I’m  _ not  _ inclined to ever settle down - it’d be someone like you. Not too serious, not too uptight...not like this guy here…” She gestured at blue eyes.

“Hey, he resembles that remark!” shouted Gabriel from the audience.

“...but...I don’t think I’m it for you, and I don’t really want you to be it for me. I don’t care how drunk I am, I just can’t imagine agreeing to do something like this.”

“Yeah...spouse 4, right back atcha,” said Dean. “That’s exactly what I thought - you’d never go along.”

“So you both say now…” teased Roman. “But no more of that! Spoilers are forbidden, Dean, if you spill the beans before the reveal that would be...extremely disappointing...for everyone.”  _ He means no one will get a penny, and I’ll have made a spectacle of myself for nothing. _ “Spouse 2, you next.”

“Brotha...not gonna lie...I hope it’s me,” the bear said. Dean blinked his appreciative surprise, and offered a smile. “You are so my type, in every way. Whatever happens, you come to my place, and we’ll drink some beers, eat some beignets, watch the Saints--”

“The Chiefs!” Dean interrupted with a look of faux outrage.

“--watch your garbage football team get trounced by my boys--”

“Did you forget the part where we  _ won the Superbowl  _ this year?”

“...and...well...it sounds like you got sh...uh...damn bad taste, which means you probably didn’t pick me, but...it’ll be a good time, promise.”

“I’d like that, Spouse 2,” said Dean sincerely.

_ Awwwwww _ , drawled the audience.

“Spouse 1?” Roman nudged the conversation on.

“Okay…” She gathered herself, glared at Dean, glared at the audience, glared at Roman, and then deflated with a sigh. “I know I’m not, like, poster child for the perfect reality TV participant. I didn’t want to be here, and if I remembered for sure what happened that night, I  _ wouldn’t  _ be here, but...I do remember thinking you were an okay guy, and nothing I’ve seen since the show started has changed my mind. Don’t get me wrong. If we’re married, we’re getting a divorce. But...maybe I won’t make everyone I’ve ever met swear to never talk about any of this ever again. Maybe.”

“That’s...uh...very generous of you,” said Dean.

She winked.

He smiled.

Dean would  _ definitely  _ want a divorce, if it was her, but he had the sneaky suspicion that the bear wasn’t the only person from the cast he’d be staying in touch with.

Heck, if he was honest with himself...he kind of...really...wanted to stay in touch with all of them.

“And finally, Spouse 3…”

Blue eyes looked up, looked at Dean, and shook his head. “I...I don’t know what I’m supposed to say.”

“Any last thoughts? Any reflections? Anything to add to what we already know?”

Opening his mouth, blue eyes glanced at the camera, and shook his head. “I think I’ve exposed myself quite enough for one day.”

“I’d rather you expose something else,” suggested the stripper with a leer. Gabriel’s laughter was noticeably louder than that of the rest of the audience.

“Well, if that’s all you’ve got to say…” Roman waited.

“It is,” said blue eyes definitively, not sparing Dean from the hard, cold stare he directed in Roman’s direction.

_ Well, he hates me. _

_ Yet another awesome thing about all this. _

“Now, who does  _ Dean  _ think he married?” A drum roll built as Roman spoke, stepping toward the screen at the back of the stage. Dean and the four maybe-spouses slid in their chairs to face the back of the room. The audience cheered, shouting out their guesses - lots of “Spouse 4,” and “Spouse 2,” and a fair few malicious “Spouse 1’s,” and almost no “Spouse 3’s,” except one persistent voice that was almost certainly Gabriel, and damn it, none of  _ them  _ thought Dean was going to guess 3, and he was going to make an even bigger ass out of himself on national television, for daring to think he had a shot with someone so educated and active and utterly out of his league and--

His messily scrawled “Spouse 3” appeared on the screen.

The crowd  _ awwwww _ ed their disappointed.

Blue eyes turned and gawked at Dean.

“Dean, care to share a few words about why you picked Spouse 3?” asked Roman.

“Not really,” he muttered. 

“What was that?” There was a mocking gleam in Roman’s eye; he’d heard  _ exactly  _ what Dean said, and surely everyone else had too. He doubted the mic strapped to the collar of his flannel missed much.

“Well, uh...he’s really smart,” offered Dean, feeling lamer by the word. “Since there’s no actual way to know...like...none of us remember anything...I just thought, ya know, which of these people would I most...like…” Blue eye’s mouth was opening wider, and wider, his amazement growing the longer Dean spoke. “What?” Dean asked, his voice cracking with embarrassment. “I mean, don’t get me wrong - Spouse 2, you are  _ awesome _ , and you bet your as...aaaah, yeah, I’m going to New Orleans. But I don’t think...I mean...just. Look. Dick here told me to pick, and I picked. Whaddaya’ll want from me?”

“Something to say, Spouse 3?” asked Roman. Stunned, blue eyes shook his head. Dean would have given a pretty penny...at least four figures of the million dollars he definitely wasn’t going to win...to know what the fuck blue eyes was thinking. “Well, then - Dean, what was the name on the marriage certificate you found?”

“Uh...yeah…” Dean swallowed, closed his eyes, struggled his way through a deep, shaky breath. “Hell, I’m sorry, I’m probably gonna butcher the pronunciation of this...it was Cas-tee...eel...Nov-ock?”

“Casti _el_ _No_ vak!” shouted Gabriel from the audience with a whoop.

The audience exploded in laughter.

Dean goggled.

“Gabriel, did you  _ know _ ?” blue eyes demanded in an effronted gasp.

It  _ was  _ blue eyes?

“You bet your sweet ass I did!”

_ What is even happening right now? _

“Language!” snapped Roman.

_ What am I supposed to do? _

“Suck it, dick - your boy there got it right!”

_ How am I supposed to react? _

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

_ Should I say something? _

“What, and miss the chance to do  _ this _ ? Not on your  _ life _ , Cassie boy!”

_ Should I move? _

“Enough, Gabriel!” Blue eyes...Castiel...sounded like wrath made incarnate as he stood up and managed to loom over his brother despite several rows of seats between them. Dean had never seen anything sexier. Gabriel shook his head and settled back in his seat. 

_ What if... _

“Guess we’re in-laws now,” Sam added as the camera lingered on the brothers, and Gabriel broke down with laughter again.

_...what if I don’t want to divorce him? _

“You picked me…” Blue eyes twirled, his trench coat belling out around him, and directed a wild-eyed look toward Dean. “You picked me.”

_ That’s insane, right? _

“At least three times,” Dean supplied weakly. 

_ We don’t even know each other! _

“At the bar...at the altar...and on the show,” Roman gave the statement a dramatic flare.

_ I want to know him. _

With two powerful strides, Castiel crossed to Dean, wrapped an arm around his shoulders, and pulled him with easy strength into a kiss.

_ Oh, holy shit, I want to kiss him, just like this, over and over again. _

The audience burst into raucous applause and congratulations. 

Castiel’s lips were like fricken  _ magic _ against Dean’s, his vision flickering with bright light. Every public kiss he’d ever shared had been garbage, casual, suitable for general consumption, and absolutely nothing like this. Castiel was dominant, possessive, his head twisted so he could stare down the camera as he locked his lips in an unmistakable claim.

_ Is it possible he wants the same things I want? _

_ No idea...but I can’t think why else he’d kiss me like he owns me... _

“We see a lot of happy endings here on  _ Who Did You Wed?  _ But I think I can already say, this is one for the books,” Roman laughed as the lights dimmed and the on air sign flashed to warn they had mere seconds left before they were finally done. Dean barely noticed it from the corner of his eye has Castiel tugged on him again and he stumbled into their second kiss. “Dean has found his Castiel,  _ Who Did You Wed?  _ has found it’s newest one million dollar winners, and we’ve all found our way to the end of another hour of hit, live television. Until next week, I’m your host Dick Roman, and this has been  _ Who-- _ ” The audience screamed  _ Who _ , “ _ Did _ ,” screamed  _ Did _ , “ _ You _ ”, screamed  _ You _ , “ _ Wed! _ ” screamed,  _ Wed _ , and the show lights went black.

“And that’s a wrap,” said the episode director, who had quietly minded her own business in a corner during the entire live show. The fun done, the audience started to rise, talking amongst themselves, marveling at the spectacle. Roman moved amongst them, shaking hands, taking pictures, schmoozing and showing off.

Castiel finally stepped far enough from Dean to let him breathe.

“Uh. Hi,” Dean mumbled. “Husband.”

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel said breathlessly. “I’m sorry. I should have asked before doing that.”

“No…” said Dean vaguely. Castiel flushed and looked away. “Hell, no, I mean, you can kiss me if you want. As much as you want.”

“ _ May _ ,” Castiel said. Dean blinked confusion. “You  _ may  _ kiss me, if you want.”

Well, that was an open invitation if Dean ever heard one, and he didn’t hesitate before doing so.

“Ahem,” said the bear, coming up behind Castiel. Dean reluctantly shifted away, and was relieved when Castiel took his hand. “I’m glad things worked out for you two. I remember things got a little hot and heavy before I left the bar but I still wasn’t sure…” He shrugged. “Definitely was hoping it was me, but life goes on. I’m Benny, it’s awesome to meet you two.”

“Definitely a pleasure,” said Castiel with grave, adorable seriousness.

“Lisa!” said the stripper.

“Cassie,” curly hair sighed. “I’m leaving now. I’d say it was nice to meet you all, but...yeah, well.” 

Sam and Gabriel made their toward the stage, ignoring Dean’s urgent gesture that they  _ fuck off in another direction and not interrupt _ . Sam’s grin suggested he knew  _ exactly  _ what was being asked of him, and didn’t care.

“Castiel, seriously, call me crazy, but do you want to try to make this thing work?” Dean asked hurriedly. There was no way he was going to basically propose...again...assuming he was the one who’d proposed the first time...with his brother standing there.

“Equally serious response...Gabriel and I live in Chicago. How far  _ is  _ Lawrence from Chicago?” It didn’t sound like a serious response; Castiel was grinning. He shifted his grip in Dean’s to thread their fingers together and gave a reassuring squeeze.

For the first time in days, the word  _ awesome _ floated into Dean’s mind without the least hint of sarcasm.

“I was actually thinking of moving to New Orleans…” Dean shot a wink toward Benny.

Everything actually  _ was _ awesome.

“I’m down for that, brotha,” the bear said with a grin.

Drunk him made  _ amazing _ choices.

“Then...I think we have a  _ lot  _ to talk about, and more than enough money to turn whatever we decide into reality,” said Castiel.

Dean might be the first stupid son of a bitch to come to Vegas, gamble, and  _ win _ , and it was so worth it.

“...I still need an accountant...and an in-house mechanic for our beignet delivery trucks…”

So. 

“See, Sammy? Told you Vegas was a good idea.”

Much.

“See, Cassie? Told you Vegas was a good idea.”

Winning.

“Fine, I’ll allow that you were right  _ this one time _ , just don’t let it go to your head.”

Awesome.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, and everyone - my AO3 is currently having a bug where it doesn't update my inbox when new comments are left on my works. I've turned on e-mail notifications and contacted support, but e-mail is notoriously unreliable, and I have no idea how long it might take support to look into things. Since this is a new work, I'll try to check in on the comments directly, but if I don't answer (and I *have* been making much more effort to answer the last month or so...which isn't saying much, but an attempt is being made) that's likely why. I'm sorry!


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